Legend of the Adriatic
by crankyman7
Summary: During his apprenticeship in Milan, Seiji dines at the house of his teacher's mother. While there, his interest is piqued by an elderly pilot with a fantastic past. The pilot tells him the tale of his exploits as the legendary Porco Rosso. But the boy still has unanswered questions. Glad to have an audience, Marco obliges Seiji with tales of his life after his redemption.
1. Prologue Pt 1

**Author's Note  
**

Among Hayao Miyazaki's feature films,_ Porco Rosso_ is one of the most criminally neglected and underrated, at least among his fans in the English speaking world. Many of his English-speaking fans either don't seem to watch it at all, or else dismiss it as "lesser Miyazaki", instead lavishing most of their attention on more well-known titles such as _Princess Mononoke _and _Spirited Away_. While I'm hardly one to dispute that these and other Miyazaki films are good, or even great, I maintain that this neglect is still a shame; people are missing out on a really lovely film which, in this viewer's opinion, can stand with the director's best work. _Porco Rosso _may be very different from most of Miyazaki's other films, with its clearly defined historical setting and its relative lack of fantasy elements [the main character's curse is really all there is in that regard]. Also, it aims at an adult audience without sacrificing any of the whimsy that defines the director's more child-oriented efforts, and without veering into the level of violence and grimness that _Princess Mononoke_ has. It is, simply put, a dramedy for older viewers, with a colorful, witty anti-hero who recalls the honorable cynics of Golden Age Hollywood cinema.

_Whisper of the Heart_ is likewise a film that appears to get little attention among English-speaking fans of Studio Ghilbi's work, and this too is a shame. It takes what could have been just another tale of puppy love between two young teens and crafts a heartfelt ode to the pains of maturation as viewed through the eyes of a young girl. Despite a few sub-par moments, it holds up as a good movie well-worth viewing, and I count it as a real shame that it's director, Yoshifumi Kondo, did not live long enough to helm more films.

As a fan of both of these films -especially _Porco Rosso_- I considered it high time that I wrote a fanfic in honor of them. I admit that this particular fic is largely centered around the characters from _Porco Rosso_; the material from _Whisper of the Heart_ is generally restricted to the beginning and the ending. I may very well write another fic in the future that gives the characters from Kondo's film their proper due. But for now, I hope you enjoy this story.

* * *

**Important Notice**: In the film, Donald Curtis is from the American South. At the time _Porco Rosso_ takes place, segregation was still widespread in that part of the United States, and racism was still expressed very overtly both there and elsewhere in the country. While I've interpreted him as being more paternalistic than malevolent, I've still chosen to depict him using racial slurs and holding racist attitudes at a few points in this story, as it seems unlikely to me that he would not have absorbed at least some of the attitudes/vocabulary he would have grown up around. I shouldn't _have_ to say that this does not in any way constitute racism on my part, but because the possibility of my intent being misunderstood exists regardless, I'm going to say it anyway. Anything racist which he or any other character says or does in this story is presented only for the sake of characterization and historical context, and I am not condoning it.

* * *

**Prologue- Marco**

"Not bad," said Signore Goretti. "Not bad at all. As I've said before, you've the makings of a decent luthier."

Seiji examined his handiwork for a few moments, before setting it back on the table. He reminded himself that it was merely a beginning, that he would improve still further as his apprenticeship continued. Still, he could not help but give a sigh of frustration.

"I've seen better," he said.

"Artists are often the least satisfied with their own creations," Signore Goretti replied. "Are there better violins out there? Definitely. Have you made better yourself? Sure. But of all your work so far, this is my favorite."

Seiji turned. His gaze met that of his teacher.

"Really? But I'm already spotting the imperfections."

"Indeed. There are a few."

"Then why's it your favorite?"

Signore Goretti knelt down beside him.

"My first solo project was the hardest for me. I poured everything I had into it, every ounce of my will. In the end, it was far worse than yours. Mine was unusable. I couldn't believe I had failed so badly. Yet on a whim, I didn't destroy it; I kept it. Now, as you know, it resides in my study."

Seiji's eyes widened with astonishment.

"You made that?"

"I didn't tell you?"

"No."

"Hmm."

And he fell silent.

After a few moments, Seiji asked:

"Why did you keep it?"

"As I told you, it was on a whim. But now, I don't regret my choice. I'm proud of that violin."

"Huh?"

"I'm proud of it because it's wholly my own effort."

"That doesn't change that it's flawed."

Signore Goretti chuckled.

"You're right," he said with a smile. "But we can always learn from our mistakes."

He stood up.

"Four o'clock," he said. "You've worked hard, and you deserve the rest of the day off."

"Back to my books, then."

Seiji leapt to his feet and prepared to leave the workroom. He was stopped by a hand on his shoulder.

"Actually, I was hoping -well, momma, too- we were hoping you would join us for dinner at her house."

"Really? I don't deserve the honor-"

Signore Goretti laughed again.

"You know she liked you well enough when she first met you. She wants the opportunity to get to know you better. So does Marco."

"Marco?"

Seiji turned.

"You mean Signore Pagot?"

"Yes."

"I've heard you mention him, but I've never met him. What's he like?"

"Gruff. Blunt. One hundred and two years old."

He paused, before adding:

"A living legend."

"What did he do?"

"What did he do? I could tell you plenty about what he did. He served in the Great War, for one thing. He was one of the best pilots our nation has produced. He gave the blasted fascists the slip more than thrice; they never could catch up with him for long…ah, he can tell those tales better than I can."

"He doesn't tire of telling them, does he?"

Signore Goretti gave Seiji a quizzical look.

"Why do you ask?"

"If he's a hundred and two, he must have told them dozens of times by now."

"Actually…he seldom tells them. Nobody comes to hear them anymore."

"I would hear them. It'd be like listening to my grandfather's tales."

Signore Goretti smiled.

"He'd be glad to hear you say that."

They both stood silently for a few moments. Then, Signore Goretti said:

"Better get ready. Mamma'll expect us good and early. She loves to talk."

* * *

Fio Goretti did indeed love to talk; Seiji had figured that out from the moment she first came through the door of Signore Goretti's lodgings, bubbling excitedly about the various things that had happened over the previous week.

"You said she's eighty-three?" were the first words he had spoken when she had left.

"She seems to gain energy with every passing year," Signore Goretti had replied. "She was full of life when she was younger, yes, but I think she saw retirement as an excuse to cut loose even further. No matter. We all love her for it."

It was a sentiment that Seiji felt wash over him as he entered Fio's house. The woman was positively spry for age, fairly wrenching Seiji's arm from its socket in her enthusiasm.

"Seiji, dear!" she exclaimed. "How wonderful! Dear Marco will be so pleased. This way." She released his arm, turned, and began heading for the sitting room. Seiji lowered his arm, wincing as he did so. He looked at Signore Goretti, offering an awkward smile.

"The engineer's touch", his teacher quipped.

"Hey!" Fio called. "You people coming?"

"Yes, momma," Signore Goretti replied.

Seiji followed the luthier into the sitting room, which was awash in aircraft memorabilia. Among the objects Seiji could see were a leather pilot's helmet from the 1920s, a scale model of a red seaplane, and an engine crank. Across the mantelpiece, a photo could be seen, depicting a newly married couple. The man was of average height, with a dark moustache and hair, and he wore an aviator's uniform circa 1930. His expression was one of satisfaction mingled with a joy that was only just breaking through the surface. The woman also had dark hair, and wore a bridal dress of a flowery white, albeit less showy than many Seiji had seen in old photographs. Her expression was subtler, but close inspection revealed that she too appeared happy; she bore a small smile on her features.

To the right of this photo was another picture of the woman, this time in a dark evening gown. To the left was an image that drew Seiji's attention immediately. It was an aviator, with similar clothes to the man in the wedding photo, and an identical moustache. But this aviator was decidedly heavier, and he was also-

_A pig?_

Seiji blinked, no believing what he was seeing.

"Handsome, isn't he?" said a gruff voice to Seiji's right.

Seiji turned. Sitting in a wheelchair, a woolen blanket around his legs, was a frail looking man with hair and a moustache of pure white.

"Signore Pagot?"

"That's me, kiddo."

Seiji bowed.

"It's an honor, signore."

"Not bad."

Seiji hesitated, not sure what Signore Pagot meant. The latter chuckled.

"Your Italian," he said. "You been practicing?"

"Yes, signore."

Signore Pagot gestured at a pair of chairs across from his.

"Sit down," he said. "You too, Tony. You know I hate it when people get too formal."

Signore Goretti took the proffered seat at once. Seiji, after a moment, did the same.

"Fio'll be back in a few moments. She's just checking on the meal.'

"So," Signore Pagot continued. "I see you were admiring the pig."

"Who is he?"

"Me."

Seiji grinned.

"Very funny."

"I'm not joking, kid."

Seiji's grin faded.

"You're not?"

"Nope."

"But…how…?"

Signore Pagot laughed.

"Long story," he said.

At that moment, Fio re-entered the sitting room.

"Oh good, you've all met," she said. "Dinner'll be ready in an hour."

"Sit down, Fio," Signore Pagot said sternly.

"Alright, Marco," she replied, depositing herself in a chair close to his.

"Righty," said Signore Pagot. "Conversation time."


	2. Prologue Pt 2

**Prologue- Porco**

"So", Signore Pagot continued, "you're wanting to become a luthier, I hear? What prompted that?"

"Passion, I guess," said Seiji. "That and it's a good discipline."

"Passion."

Signore Pagot sighed.

"I know it well."

He leaned forward, eying Seiji carefully.

"Say, you're a handsome guy," he remarked. "You got any girls flinging themselves at you yet?"

"Marco!" Fio exclaimed.

"Blast it, Fio, I'm allowed to crack a joke."

"Oh right. Girl power. Can't be quaint anymore."

He coughed.

"Dratted Americans and their music."

Seiji laughed.

"They _do_ have their influence."

Then, his grin fading, he said:

"Actually, there is…one girl. But I've had to work for her attention. She's not a trophy."

"No woman's a trophy, kiddo," Signore Pagot replied. "Every one of 'em's special in their own way."

"He's a stickler on that point," Signore Goretti whispered.

"Had my own woman," Signore Pagot continued, either not hearing, or deliberately ignoring, this remark. "Great one. My dear little wife. Right over there, in the photos."

He closed his eyes.

"Took me twenty years to admit to myself that I loved her."

"What happened?" Seiji asked.

"Long story."

"Kind of funny, too," Fio added. "In parts."

Signore Pagot glared at her.

"What?" said Fio. "That fist fight was great!"

"I was fighting for _your_ honor," he replied.

Then, abruptly, he grinned.

"I guess it _was_ kind of funny. Especially since that dratted cowboy took his loss so well."

"You seem to have had an interesting past," Seiji remarked.

"'Interesting' doesn't begin to describe it, kid."

"I know, what with the…"

"The pig?"

"Yes. The pig."

"Yeah, I was a pig," said Signore Pagot. "Still am, in some ways."

"Ah, you're a lovable pig," said Fio. "And a great person."

"She tells me this _every_ single day," said Signore Pagot. Then, in an imitation of Fio's voice, he said:

"You're a great person, Marco. You know that?"

"Hey, but you are!" Fio winked, and pinched Signore Pagot's shoulder. The old man winced.

"Sorry," she said.

"Don't worry about it," he grunted.

Fio stood up.

"From the smell, it seems dinner's ready sooner than I thought it'd be," she said. "You all better get to the table. I'll get things set up."

* * *

An hour later, satiated by what he could only consider an excellent meal, Seiji found himself back in the sitting room. Fio and Signore Goretti had remained in the kitchen, leaving him alone with Signore Pagot. As he eyed the photographs over the mantel once more, he knew that the old man was watching him closely.

"Signore Pagot-" he began.

"Please," the old man said. "Call me Marco."

"Marco," Seiji continued, "about that woman…"

"My wife? What about her?"

"You said it was a long story. And you said the same about the pig."

"By 'pig', you mean me, right?"

Seiji turned to look at Marco.

"I'm sorry, it's just…astonishing."

"Everybody else took it in stride," said Marco. "Well, after the shock wore off."

"Is it asking too much for you tell-"

Marco cut him off with a raised hand.

"Kid, I've told both stories before. They're one and the same."

"I hope you're not tired of telling them…it."

"Sit back, then," said Marco. "This tale's a doozy."

* * *

And so Marco told Seiji the tale of the Crimson Pig. For two solid hours, he listened, enthralled by the heroic exploits, touched by the moments of tenderness. He didn't even notice that Fio and his master had re-entered the room until the old pilot had finished.

"Having a good time?" Signore Goretti asked him.

"Yes, Signore," Seiji replied. "Marco was just telling me about-"

The rest of his words were drowned out by loud snoring. Marco had fallen asleep.

"Really, Marco!" Fio said, pinching his shoulder once again.

Marco's eyes shot open.

"That hurt!" he cried. "What do you-"

He stopped, and then blinked.

"You were snoring like a bulldog," Fio said flatly.

"Drat it, Fio!" Marco snapped. "I told you not to let me do that when guests are over."

Fio grinned sheepishly. "It happened too suddenly to prevent."

Marco's glare gradually morphed into a grin. He chuckled.

"What can I say? I'm a geezer." Then, to Seiji, he said:

"Sorry about that."

"No, no problem," Seiji replied.

"You enjoy the story, kid?"

"You couldn't tell?"

"Yeah, I figured as much."

"But here's the thing-"

"Yeah?"

"You _did_ end up marrying Madame Gina?"

"That's right."

"And you did get away from the fascists."

"Considering I'm still here right now, I'd say yes."

"What exactly happened next?"

The last vestiges of Marco's grin faded.

"Why don't you come with me?" he said, moving his wheelchair towards the room's exit.

While Fio and Signore Goretti remained in the sitting room, Seiji followed Marco to the latter's bedroom. Once inside, Marco directed him the shut the door, before heading towards a piece of red-coated planking.

"All that's left of her," said Marco. "Fio's little beauty went down along the coast…she couldn't be repaired."

He shifted his wheelchair so that he was facing Seiji.

"Life isn't all rosy, kid, and not every ending is happy. Some are bittersweet."

"I know that," Seiji replied. "My grandfather knows that, too. He was going to marry a German woman before the war, but they never got to. Afterwards, he tried to find her, and…no luck."

"Death, loss- the price we all pay in war…and sometimes in peace." Marco took a deep breath. "The trick is not to despair. Don't be naive…but don't despair. There's always something to live for. Even if you don't know what the reason is, it's always out there, somewhere."

"That sounds like something my grandfather said once."

"He's a wise man, then."

"That he is."

Silence descended for several moments. Then Marco broke it.

"You still want to know what happened next?"

"I do."

Marco met Seiji's gaze.

"Open the top drawer in the desk and pull out the manuscript inside," he said.

Seiji did so and returned carrying the manuscript.

"My memoirs," said Marco. "Unpublished as of right now, and not likely to be a huge hit if they are. Everybody caters to kids these days, and you're the only one I've ever met who'd be interested. All the old fogeys would have loved it are dead. Anyways, why don't you borrow it and read it in your spare time? It's got everything I told you and everything I didn't."

Seiji's eyes widened.

"But don't you want to keep it safe?"

"Ah, relax," said Marco. "I've got the original stashed away. That's one's a spare. Anyway, when you're done, bring it back and tell me what you thought."

"I will," Seiji promised.

"Now, we'd best head back to the sitting room. I'm thinking Tony'll want to call it a night about now."

* * *

Late that evening, a boy and an old man were wide awake. The former was deeply engaged in reading a manuscript. The latter was gazing at a piece of a red seaplane, his mind wandering backwards into the past, his senses overwhelmed by memories…


	3. Book One: Ch 1

**Book One**

* * *

**Chapter One**

**A Distraction**

"Hey, wait a minute! Your face!"

"Get away from me!"

Porco Rosso waved Donald Curtis away as he stumbled towards his seaplane. He didn't have time to wait for the American to resolve his apparent astonishment. Not when the fascists were on their way. Not when they had to create a distraction to allow the pirates to escape. Not when he'd just turned back into a-

_Hey, wait a minute_.

He reached for his face, felt it, ran his hands over it. The skin was no longer porcine.

_Human flesh_.

He bent over the water, stared at his reflection.

_What in blazes-?_

"Um, Porco?"

The sound of Curtis' voice caused him to look up.

"You're human again."

"Of course I am, you idiot," Porco snapped. Then, abruptly, he grinned.

"There must be a God in heaven still."

"'Course there is," Curtis replied. "Always was."

He gestured towards the sky.

"But I ain't ready to meet him yet."

Porco's eyes strayed to where Curtis had pointed. The first of the Italian planes had begun to arrive.

"Move your butt, cowboy," Porco snarled as he scrambled towards his plane.

"I _am_ movin' it," Curtis said. "You're the one who was takin' so long-"

"Take off!" Porco shouted, sliding into his seat.

"Got it!"

As he activated his plane's engine, Porco suddenly had a weak feeling in his stomach.

_My gun was jammed. And they aren't going to give me time to fix it in the air._

_And Curtis is out of ammo._

The second thought prompted the weak feeling to increase in intensity. He shook his head, willed the feeling away.

_Bah! We'll just have to improvise. _

The plane began to move forward, sliding across the water on its pontoons as it picked up speed.

_Of course, we're probably going to die. At least it'll be for a good…_

As the plane rose into the air, he saw the might of the Italian Airforce surging towards him, the noon-time sun gleaming off of the planes' metallic sides.

_…__cause._

"Okay," he muttered. "We're _definitely_ going to die."

* * *

As Curtis piloted his own plane into the air, he too saw the oncoming foe. He reached for the lever to his machine guns.

"Sayanara, you liberty-snatching jerks!" he shouted as he pulled the trigger.

No bullets came out.

"Shoot!" he growled. "Oh wait, that was an accidental pun-"

A stream of bullets cut him off and forced him to steer out of the way.

"I forgot I was out of ammo!" Curtis shouted as he arrived beside Porco's plane.

"Away!"

Curtis glanced at Porco.

"What?"

"Away! We split up now!"

"Where do we meet?"

"White Cliffs! Northeast!"

"Great! I'll be sure to bring barbeque!"

"Move it, dumbbell!"

"Oh, right!"

Curtis angled his plane away. Glancing behind, he saw that three of the Italian fighters had broken out of formation in order to follow him. He smirked.

"Hey, come and get me, Dagos!" he hollered.

The slur was greeted by a burst of gunfire that he had to dodge.

"Hey, what's the matter? I can make fun of Italians. _I'm_ Italian!"

The Italian planes fired again.

"Alright, I'll grant you the connection is slight. But it's there."

The Italian planes fired yet again.

"Alright, fine. Its barely there. Now stop shooting!"

The planes fired once more.

"Don't know how to take an apology," Curtis grumbled as he strove desperately to evade the bullets.

Suddenly, the gunfire stopped. The sound of the planes following him began to fade ever so slightly. Looking behind him, he saw Porco steering his red seaplane in a wide arc, drawing vapor trails across the sky. The three pursuing fighters had begun to follow him. As Curtis watched, Porco maneuvered so that he was between two of the planes.

_What is he-?_

As one of the Italian gunners began firing, Porco abruptly dove, allowing the bullets to strike the tale of the second plane. Curtis laughed.

"They're dumb as bricks!"

His laughter ceased instantly as he saw the other planes flying towards the fray. Instinctively, he began to turn his ownp lane. Instantly, he heard Porco shout:

"What are you doing, you idiot?"

Reluctantly, Curtis returned to his former course. Still, as he sped away towards Porco's chosen rendezvous point, he felt a twinge of regret.

_There's no way he'll get out of that. No way. And I've got no ammo to help him._

* * *

Within an hour, Curtis reached the white cliffs overlooking Porco's beach hideout. After checking to make sure that he hadn't been followed, he brought his plane down into the inlet, finally stopping beside the beach. Leaping out onto the shoreline, he whipped out a pair of binoculars and scanned the sky. He saw nothing but a few birds.

"How long do I give him?" he wondered aloud. "I can't be all day."

He paced back and forth across the sands, his mind returning to the day's events.

_Lost a wife. Course, she didn't really want me anyway. She wanted Porco. She wanted the pig. Kind of infuriating!_

_And probably as much as I deserve._

He stopped. It was the first time he'd ever had such a thought.

_Women who don't want me. That's a novelty. Makes one think about…stuff. Life. Priorities. That sort of thing. _

_Guess it means someone else'll have to be the First Lady. Sad, but they made their choices, and I've gotta respect 'em. After all, I lost Fio fair and square. And Gina…well, no gentleman'd ever force himself on a lady. Even if she _does_ lack a bit of taste. Well, only a bit. Porco's got some gumption. And with a stache like his, it's no wonder he's got European women fawning over him. _

A rumbling in his stomach informed Curtis that he was hungry. Returning to his plane, he retrieved some dried beef he had stashed away in his plane. Tearing apart the wrapping with his teeth, he began the down the meat. When he had finished, he resumed staring at the sky. When he tired of standing still, he began to pace back and forth. When he tired of pacing, he seated himself on a boulder and began whistling _The Stars and Stripes Forever._ And all the while, the sun sank lower and lower in the sky.

Porco had still not returned.

"Oh no."

Spotting Porco's tent, Curtis scrambled towards it, Ducking inside, he scanned its contents.

"He's gotta have a phone around here somewhere- aha!"

Grabbing the aforementioned item, he hurriedly dialed the number for the Hotel Adriano.

"Come on, come on," he said, tapping his foot on the ground as the call was carried through.

It was only a minute before he heard Madame Gina's voice at the other end of the line, but to Curtis, it felt like another hour.

"Hello?" she asked. "Marco, is that you?"

"Hello?" Curtis said.

"Curtis?"

"Yep, it's me."

"Listen," Gina said, sounding tired, "I haven't got time for small-talk. Where's Marco?"

"That's just what I'm trying to tell you!" Curtis snapped. "He hasn't come back yet."

"What? What do you mean? Where is he? Where are you?"

"Slow down!" Curtis pleaded. "One question at a time."

"Where's Marco?"

"I don't know. I last saw him hours ago. He was up in the air, evading the fascists. He said he'd rendezvous with me, but he never showed up."

"That fool!" Gina cried. "He must have been showing off. We need to organize a search."

Hearing the tent flap open behind him, Curtis turned to see a person entering. He lowered the phone from his ear, his mouth agape.


End file.
